


Meg in the Middle of the Night

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Character Study, Episode Related, Introspection, Masturbation, POV Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Sexual Fantasy, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:02:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meg is up to her lovely neck in Mounties.  Surprisingly, they're not hitting on her.  It turns out she has a sense of humor about her situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meg in the Middle of the Night

Squeezed into bed between two Mounties in dress tunics—one of them old enough to be her father, the other her subordinate, a man who seems to have never quite abandoned his childhood and who is sleeping _with a stuffed toy_ —Meg Thatcher allows her sense of humor to override her irritation.  There’s no one to see, after all; not with both men snoring away like freight trains.

 

She’s spent her whole career fending off advances from superior officers, from coworkers, from subordinates with no sense of self-preservation.  She’s endured groping from drunken diplomats, and on one very satisfying occasion, given a bloody nose to an asshole of an FBI agent who patronized her once too often.  And now, here she is, sleeping with not one but two fellow officers—in what has got to be one of the least sexy situations she’s ever been in.

 

Unlike the majority of men she’s encountered over the course of her career, the two currently sharing her bed would no more entertain sexual thoughts of her than she would of them.  Which is a relief.  But ludicrously, when they turned their backs like gentlemen to let her take off her boots and tunic, and then climbed in beside her with their own tunics still on, rolled over and went to sleep as though she were no more than a bolster tossed in the middle of the bed. . .she felt weirdly offended.  Almost disappointed.

 

She’s a woman in a man’s world, but she’s not made of ice (no matter what certain Chicago detectives call her behind her back—does the man really imagine she doesn’t know his juvenile little nickname for her?).  Her sexual desires are a liability, a weakness she dares not show to the enemy—and in this, all men are the enemy—but they exist, just as much as any man’s.

 

They drive her mad, sometimes.  Or at least, they make her stupid and tongue-tied and _undignified._   On occasion, they’ve driven her near to forgetting her duty, her ambition, and her responsibilities.

 

On occasion, they’ve driven her to hope.

 

Ridiculous hope.  What did she think would be different, if she brought Fraser to Toronto with her?  One city or another, one posting or another, he’d still be her subordinate.  Inappropriate, unconscionable even to consider. . .offering him her affection.  They both know it.

 

They both, know, too, that Fraser would be as out of place in Toronto as he is in Chicago.  As out of place as she is in this _shack_ in the middle of the ice fields.  In this bed between two men who couldn't harbor inappropriate thoughts about her if you paid them to do it, and for a moment she sends up a prayer of thanks to a God she doesn’t really believe in for Turnbull and even for Frobisher.  The rest of the detachment may have spied on her in her makeshift bath and hooted at a glimpse of her bare skin, but it didn’t occur to either of these two that bedding down with her was any different than bunking with each other.

 

If Fraser were here. . .He would offer her the same courtesy, but he wouldn’t be able to pull it off.  It’s not her gender that flusters him, it’s his own response to her.  And—be fair—her response to him, and her bloody inability to hide it.

 

She can’t help giggling as she imagines the look on his face if he were here, if Frobisher had offered him the place in the bed that Turnbull currently occupies.  Wide-eyed, frozen like a startled rabbit, stammering. . . (God help her, but Constable Fraser at a loss for words is one of the sexiest damned things she’s ever seen.)  Would he find some excuse to bed down outside with the dogs?  Would he submit to Frobisher’s hostly offer?  What if she _ordered_ him to take the bed? 

 

(Unpardonable; out-and-out sexual harassment in real life.  But Fraser isn’t here, and this is her fantasy, so what the hell.  Say she orders him.  Say his eyes go even rounder—with panic, yes, but also with desire, only slightly better hidden than her own.  Let him say, “Yes, Sir,” strip off his boots and unbuckle his outer accoutrements and lie down at her left hand, straight as a board, hands folded over his stomach, breath coming quick but silent.)

 

Her own breathing has become rapid; she can feel her cheeks flushing in the dark and a tingling tension gathering below her belly.  As if her situation needed to be more ridiculous and embarrassing.

 

But it’s pitch black, and the men on either side of her are still snoring. 

 

She slides her hand carefully into her trousers and lets her fingers rest on the focal point of her frustration and yearning and. . .She doesn’t gasp, doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t move.  She has more self-control than that.

 

She tries to imagine Turnbull’s reaction if he caught her. . .but her imagination fails her, or perhaps it just refuses to perform out of self-preservation.  Frobisher. . .equally mind-boggling, though for different reasons.  Fraser, now. . .

 

No.  She can’t think about Fraser while she’s doing this.  That’s almost as inappropriate as touching the man himself—more inappropriate, in a sense, since he isn’t here to defend himself.  She owes him more respect than that.

 

She takes a deep breath, clears her mind, and mentally walks through the steps of disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling a pistol.  Lying perfectly motionless except for the gentle wiggling of her fingers against her own flesh; letting the delicious hot shivers sweep through her.  Until (halfway through disassembling the gun for the third time) the knot of pleasure bursts and blossoms inside her and she melts into the mattress, perfectly relaxed and at peace for one blissful moment.

 

In her position, she thinks, Fraser would have recited the administration manual.  He might even have found it. . .stimulating.  Hell, he could have woken up Frobisher and Turnbull, they could have made a choral recitation of it.  Synchronized. . .recitation.  Three identical frowns of concentration; three red-clad arms moving as one.

 

Lying in the dark between two snoring Mounties, Meg Thatcher dissolves into silent laughter.


End file.
